


get you asking

by seventeencrows



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: how didn't you see how this could go terrible wrong?, who doesn't love a good game?, who thought taking suggestions from kepler was ever a good idea?, why exactly did i write this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeencrows/pseuds/seventeencrows
Summary: no, no, don’t worry about it—you don’t need toreallyanswer, do you? that’s not one of the rules, after all.





	get you asking

**Author's Note:**

> this is by and far the most obnoxiously ridiculous thing i've written in a long while, and brings new meaning to the phrase “exercise in frustration”. as i described it to someone yesterday, it's a tasting platter of sadass shit.
> 
> title is from thomas pynchon’s quote, “if they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.”

_so—_

anybody got a _question?_ yes? no?

let’s get started, shall we—

what about you, darling/sweetheart/baby/hon? have you got anything to s̴̢̱̽a̶̤̕y̵̺̙̾̄? how are you feeling, babe? are you t̵̗̀-ṫ̷͖-tired? how long has it been since you’ve slept? since you’ve recharged? since you’ve won this ḡ̶̦a̷͕̒m̴̦̔ë̶̺́ you’ve been playing, all this goddamn time? you doing okay? feeling fine? f̵͖͝i̵̗͝x̷̫͋e̷̜̋d̷̜̉? fuck, i hope so, right? you haven't got your ā̴͉c̴͓̎e̷̢̐ in the hole anymore, haven't got someone to patch you right back up again when you f-f-f-f-f̸̰̕a̸̭͗i̶̗̕l̷͍̄, do you? i mean, she's not quite gone, is she? you haven't seen eiffel for a while because you've been too scared to ĺ̶͍ǫ̵͑o̵͕̊k̸̏ͅ; you still feel her sometimes at the edge of your sense horizon, a phantom in engineering, a glitch in the hallway, and wasn't it her voice crackling for a second instead of yours that one time you told jacobi to _s̵̗͘h̴̠̋u̵̍ͅť̷͎ up?_ which one of you was more scared? more hurt? he's a monster and you're a—baby, what _a̷̖̅r̷̟͛e̴͈_ you? maxwell died without a single goddamn _human being_ left to mourn her, but you _won,_ right? you're still alive, still playing the game, still asking all the right questions—r̴i̴g̵h̷t̷?

oh hey, lieutenant, isn't this better? didn't you say it once before, how nice it is when someone else is reading him the riot act? is doing all the work? no, no, that's not what you meant, of course—but am i wrong? isn't being the boss so goddamn hard? we know you can do this, sweetie, sure, but aren't you glad there's a big girl in charge now? can’t say we didn’t see it coming, really—doesn’t this sort of thing run in your family? giving up? settling? it’s fine, really, don’t you worry your pretty little head, isn’t it just the sort of person you are? nothing wrong with being a middle link, right? everything’s so much easier when you’re following orders, right, when you don’t have to make the hard choices—who you save, who you shoot, how close you’re going to step up to that line before someone smarter than you calls your goddamn bluff? and it was a bluff, after all? and now she’s doing your job— _her job,_  first, always—and he suddenly knows what he’s doing after so many years of such startling incompetence and weren’t you going to do something? pull your weight? make a difference? weren’t you going to play by the rules—keep them alive—get them home safe? weren’t you going to be someone who mattered, just like you’d always wanted?  

who's next? how about you, sugar? can you be nice? play along all sweet like syrup, like ethylene glycol in their goddamn coffee—you're such an old hand _(hah!)_ at these games, aren't you? but it isn't the same when it's one-on-one, huh? there's four other people here but it's still only ever just the two of you when it counts, hasn’t it been, ever since your referee got the red-card, took her time-out on the other side of airlock glass? it's not like you love him, after all? you don't fucking care—spite don't mean you give a shit about him anymore, does it? but everything is still _about_ him, still doing things for him, _to_ him; they think they're playing you like a fiddle but you're really twisting like a knife, aren't you? don't you want to see him fall? see him fail? see some of that goddamn humility? aren't you just gagging for it? you want to hurt him (back) ‘cause it feels good, wanna get (even with) him because that's just how it works, yeah? there ain't a side? not one of them, are you, is he; it's just fucking business, right? aren't you just doing your goddamn job like always? except, you can't call it your backstory when you wake up every godforsaken day and you're still living it—can you?

got anything to add? give you back your mouth—brain—body—control and there’s not much you’re worth, is there? there is no gun to throw yourself in front of this time, no bullet you can take in someone’s place, no madman to taunt until he reconsiders, until he turns the barrel your way instead, is there? what use are you, then? even radios are two-way, aren’t they? even the hephaestus itself can do better than you, work better than you, be less of a _liability_ then you are, can’t it? it’s not the only thing that can kill them in their sleep, that can pitch them towards the star, isn’t it? you used to say you were a variation on a theme, this time around, same story with different characters but aren’t you a different genre, now? are you the sequel? the epilogue? the deleted scene? what can you ever hope to fix with hands that aren’t even yours, not really, not anymore? there’s a grave back on earth with a name you’ve stolen and a body with a face you’re wearing floating somewhere in the lonely cold, and a woman with a legacy you can only slink behind—you’re riding her coattails and leading them straight to hell, aren’t you? you don’t really mean to, right? you can’t help it—you don’t know what you’re doing but you’re _trying,_ you’re going _save_ them and who cares if there’s a folder with your name on it in some deep dark basement somewhere, with a commanding officer on a long-gone station choking down panic and broken promises and giving you all the reasons isabel lovelace’s story should end right here, once and for all? after all, you do only want what’s best for everyone? don’t you?

and how's it going, buddy? how are you doing, friend? are you feeling better? are you tired of feeling sorry for yourself yet? can't even do that right, can you? apologize? move on? be _better?_ it's all you're good for, isn't it, falling off a wagon? doesn’t even matter which one it is anymore, does it? if they don't see you for a while, if you keep your head down, if you _do your fucking job_ (how novel), then you don't have to watch your mouth, do you? can't say her name if she's not around, can't ask an empty room if she can hear you, can't flinch when she reaches past you with hands that aren't glowing, not this time—but shit, pal, didn't you just go and do it again? isn't this what you were trying to avoid? them feeling sorry for you? feeling bad? making it all about you, like always? it's always what _you_ want, isn't it? you want a date, you want a drink, you want one more drive with your best girl—just the one (drink? drive? both?), that's okay, right? just this once?

and _you?_ are you ready for the t-t-t-thunderdome? are you feeling humbled yet? scared? bored? it's okay to pass, you know, to fold, to crumble and break and bleed and—and you know what's coming, don't you? how many days has it been since you radioed in, since the flare? he said daily, didn't he? they're so scared, of the monsters out in the dark and the ones right in their closets, skeleton hands wrapping tight around the doorknob, that they've _forgotten,_ haven't they? eight light years isn't really that far, when you really think about it, long enough to forget _who you belong to,_ that insignia stitched over your hearts like it's a goddamn promise, but don’t you know it's certainly, definitely not enough to hide? and isn't it only a matter of time, another round for when you get tired of this one, get bored of this hand you've been dealt? because that's okay—

we all know that there are so many more games to play, don't we?

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: i've been playing a round of the questions game for seven years with a dear friend; it's a wonder we haven't murdered each other yet


End file.
